


Purified

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x17, Feelings, Guilt, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Timestamp, season 10, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamp for 10x17: Inside Man. Crowley wants to have Dean one last time, any way he can. Dean gives him what he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purified

Crowley is not one to beg. He sits staring at his drink, tasting each word Dean says like a bitter sweetness on his tongue. The boy speaks and all Crowley hears is the buzz of his voice, overlaid with remembered, throaty cries of passion. He remembers Dean's taste, all youth and suffering, and how he looked when he came. Crowley remembers that particular taste, too. It's making it difficult for him to concentrate on the fact that Dean Winchester is actually giving him some damn good advice.

He'd honestly expected -- well, not this. He'd expected Dean to be angry, for one. Instead the boy just looks tired, shoulders hunched like he's been roughly worn into someone twice his age. Technically, Crowley recalls, he did spend a few decades down below, so. That would have an effect.

Crowley wonders if Dean still has nightmares of the rack, or if they've all been replaced by darker ones of murdering Moose and the angel.

A memory, unbidden and unwanted, imposes itself upon his mind: Dean, toying a tickling fingertip down Crowley's side and talking in a hushed voice about his fevered dreams, his doubts, now that he bore the black eyes. Crowley did his best to allay the fears of his brand-new Knight. He wanted, with a desperation he didn't understand and which honestly unsettled him, to make sure that Dean was satisfied. That Dean _stayed_.

Look how well that turned out. His people skills must be rusty, despite commanding untold legions as King of the Pit, and securing countless souls for centuries.

His drink is slowly melting into disappointing syrup. Dean has begun to look at him as he speaks, and Crowley somehow feels those glances as hotter brands than those laid upon him during his time on the rack long, long ago. How should a pair of pretty green eyes captivate him more than Hellfire, or the sparkle of brand new chains, or the screams of the freshly damned that hang in the air like shivering, glass ornaments? He used to spend time down there. He knew every smoldering nook and cranny, every twisted face. Now, he couldn't tell you which demons are currently serving as his sycophants, and which his jailers. It's a problem.

So is this wanting nonsense. He's the bloody King of Hell, he _takes_ what he wants, but for some reason Dean gives him pause. It was straight out of Hollywood, their whole torrid affair -- Crowley wonders briefly of selling the movie rights. Maybe to Sparks, they have an accord -- and of course, it was too good to be true. Of course, Dean was too much a wild stallion to ever be tamed. Maybe as a run-of-the-mill demon; maybe if he hadn't been bloody _rescued_ , and had worked his way up the ranks like any other blackened soul. But that's venturing into the realm of _what if_ and _might have been_ , dangerous ground for any to tread.

Dean is telling him that _family don't end in blood; don't start there, neither_ and something like hope stirs in the withered recesses of Crowley's chest. The warm tones of Dean's voice are a more heady liqueur than any drink he's had to date. He feels reckless.

"Let's have another," he blurts, and conjures them each a glass. Dean tilts his up, eying the contents with model distaste.

"That was Walker Blue," he says almost plaintively. But he drinks the new stuff anyway. He winces as it goes down. Crowley takes a sip from his own, and even he makes a polite noise of _my throat is on fire_. Apparently he's got more on his mind than talking, if the proof is any indication.

Maybe Dean won't notice.

"You tryna sully my virtue, Boris?"

Hope springs eternal, Crowley deadpans to himself. Aloud, he mutters into his glass, "Wouldn't dream of it, love." The conjured whiskey goes down easier the second time.

"All I'm saying is, maybe you got some thinkin' to do." Dean drains his glass, and stands. "If she keeps telling you that what you think is wrong, well. Either you are, or she is." He walks away.

Crowley nods, staring down into the amber liquid pooling in his own glass. When he knocks it back, sudden and fierce, the burn barely registers. It's nothing like the fire raging within him, hotter than the ones he walks through daily.

"Dean," he says. It's been awhile since he's called the boy by name. He tries to avoid it, actually. And even with his back to the rest of the bar, he feels Dean flinch when he hears it. There are memories attached to that name on his tongue, the shape of it, the way he moaned it into Dean's mouth or served it as a reprimand. Crowley wonders which moments are keeping Dean silent now. He's never hoped so much in one evening, not in his whole miserable existence.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Dean must see him draw breath and beats him to it.

"You want to think real hard about what you say next."

Crowley nods. His eyes skip over notches in the lacquered wood. Something distracts, he sniffs -- oh. There's a body behind the bar. Someone tried to fight back. Crowley doubts that Dean knows it's there, and for some reason he wants to make sure it stays that way. He gets the feeling Dean might have liked this bartender.

He stands, smoothing out the lines of his suit.

Dean has gravitated toward the door, but he's still here, a steady and distrustful gaze aimed right through Crowley. If he truly felt the way he projected on the night he stole back the Blade, he would have been long gone by now. Crowley knows it's not just foolish hope that tells him this. He also knows that the minute he turns on the charm, or tries to schmooze, the door will be flapping on its hinges.

So he makes sure that all of his uncertainty, all his remaining humanity is right there on the surface. It itches.

"We --"

Dean shakes his head. "There ain't no 'we'."

"You and me, then --" _brat_ "-- spoke at length, once. About our fears." Crowley had known that the Mark, the change, and the newfound freedom would lead Dean to realize just how vulnerable he'd been as a mere human. When the crash came, it hit Dean hard, and Crowley was there to stroke through the short bristles of his hair and reassure him that he was fine. He even went so far as to share a few of his own, taking advantage of a friendly ear and the catharsis found in afterglow. He knows that Dean remembers. "I wasn't lying, you know."

Dean told him about growing up a hunter, assuming he'd be dead before thirty. He'd spoken about Sam, how he feared that his brother was being held back and didn't even realize it, because what was Sam without Dean? A bitter laugh there. Ruefully, he told Crowley about the time the brothers got drunk and Sam proposed to Dean, because he was the only enduring thing in Sam's whole life. "He doesn't even remember," Dean mumbled. "He was a kid, you know? Couldn't hold his booze. Still can't." And he sighed.

In return, Crowley told Dean about his death. About the stinking cargo ship, and the fever. Despite being one of the oldest aboard, he was one of the last to succumb. He watched men he hardly knew rave about angels and demons, most of them born into Catholic houses, all of them ready to repent or renounce a lifetime of faith if it meant any kind of salvation. When he was alone on a brig full of corpses, so sick he was clawing at his own skin with thirst, an angel appeared to him. "It was a woman with flowing red hair,” he said. “She looked like the bloody First Maiden, the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. She asked me if I wanted to live, and I looked at her and said, no. I'm done with this. Take me to Heaven." He traced a line down Dean's bare shoulder. "Then her eyes went black, and I remembered where I was headed." _It was worth it, though_ , he added silently, _when you've got me in your mouth._

There was a long moment of silence, and Crowley thought that Dean had fallen asleep. Then, in a voice so small it barely rumbled in his chest, Dean said, "They should have just left me downstairs. What good have these past few years done _anyone?_ ” The vitriol and self-loathing in his voice was choking him. Crowley shushed him, thinking of all the times they'd clashed over the years, and how none of it would have happened if Dean had been left to become a demon the natural way. He barely resisted hugging the boy closer. There's no way he wanted to trade away any of that, despite what Dean may think. Somewhere along the line, Crowley started feeling _feelings_ , and they are a stubborn mass that tug on his strings and make him act in ways that he wouldn't even consider were this not Dean Bloody Winchester in his arms.

So he said, "All of the good, you twit," and kissed him hard.

Standing there in the bar, feeling vulnerable -- which is still a new experience, not pleasant in the least -- Crowley watches Dean remember. His strong jaw jumps, the line of his throat ripples with a gulp, and the steely look in his eyes doesn't hide a thing. His hands twitch at his sides. Crowley wonders what they're itching to do, whether it's kill him or drag him in and own him.

At this point, Crowley might be fine with either. As much as he's enjoyed being King, it has been wearing on him of late, and Rowena... well, she'd probably rule with an iron claw. At least the place wouldn't go to seed.

Dean squares his shoulders. "I wasn't either."

Now, see. Crowley doesn't know if he means that particular heart-to-blackened-husk, or what came afterward -- when Dean snubbed him, and tore at him in ways Crowley never thought possible. He affects nonchalance, toying with a cufflink. "No, I suppose not," he says. "Vulnerability loosens more tongues than all the booze on this stinking plane."

The boy actually bristles, and Crowley has to hold back a chuckle. He's like a brindle hound. "The only one vulnerable here is you," Dean spits. "I played your game, and I won."

"Have you?" Crowley challenges. "All I see is a tired child with less sense in his head than he had months ago. You've let the Mark change you, but you're not a warrior anymore. All this indecision has made you soft."

As he says this, Dean advances, until they're practically toe to toe. Dean's glower is heating the air between them. It feels like home. Crowley's next words come in a whisper, hissed against Dean's lips. "You're afraid, Squirrel."

"My name is Dean," he says, and bites Crowley's lower lip.

A muttered curse is lost down Dean's throat. He's so bloody tall, Crowley is up on his toes, and one of Dean's strong arms wraps snugly around his back to keep him there. The kiss is fierce, something to prove in every vicious swipe of Dean's tongue. Crowley laps up every bit of the flavor, realizing that he missed it. He missed this, the boy's larger frame covering every inch of his own. He missed feeling --

Heaven, he missed _feeling_.

He gasps Dean's name as Dean goes for his neck, biting hard enough to bruise and suckling til it does. The rush goes straight to Crowley's cock, stirring in his tailored slacks. They're clasped together so firmly that Dean definitely notices. There's a dark chuckle pressed into Crowley's skin. Dean inhales deeply just above his collar.

"You smell like fucking rotten eggs," he says. He drags the fabric aside, and bites down again.

One of his hard thighs wedges between Crowley's legs, and Crowley rides up on it desperately. Orgasm has been furthest from his mind since this whole fiasco turned on its head, and now he's realizing just how desperate it's made him. He could probably come like this, rutting against Dean like a dog, strung out on the way Dean is tearing at his neck.

Then, Dean is gripping his shoulders, shoving him down. Crowley drops like a stone to his knees. The evidence of Dean's interest strains hard against his jeans, and Crowley pitches forward to mouth at the denim. His mouth remembers this shape. He's practically drooling, soaking through the fabric. Dean grunts, animal pleasure, fumbling with his belt buckle and pulling at Crowley's hair.

"You better make this good," he growls, undoing the first button of his fly. Crowley reaches for the rest, but Dean smacks his hand away. "Ah, ah," he tsks. "You know better."

A dirty thrill shivers down Crowley's spine, at war with his innate arrogance and sense of superiority. But he wanted this -- he wants this, so much. He leans forward, and takes the rough denim between his teeth.

Dean's hum of approval as each button comes undone is enough to convince Crowley that it's worth a blow to his pride, to have this one more time.

The jeans fall open, and smooth heat falls lightly against Crowley's cheekbone. Dean isn't wearing any underwear. His cock is just as pretty as Crowley remembers, ruddy in the tungsten light, dripping at the tip. Crowley laps at it, renewing his memory of the taste. Dean's precome is so sweet. Nothing at all like Crowley's own, soured and bitter from so long in Hell. Crowley wraps a hand around Dean's shaft, milking him until a whine rises out of Dean's throat, and more drops of nectar well from his slit.

The head is purpling, nearly as hard as the length in Crowley's hand. Crowley has no idea if Dean has had anyone since their tryst, and not that he cares, but he'd be even more impressed at the effect he's seemingly having if the boy _hasn't_ spent these long months without congress. Dean is whimpering, hips bucking with greater and greater force. Crowley mouths at the swollen cockhead, getting it good and wet, until Dean grinds hard against his face and forces himself right down Crowley's throat.

Crowley lets himself gag around it, just because the spasms wrench a beautiful moan from above.

He works at this harder than he's ever done, suckling and pulling as though he can tug Dean's orgasm out by force. Dean is clutching at his head, at his shoulders, gripping his collar and forcing him to take it deep. If Dean did come this way, Crowley wouldn't even get to taste it. He works his tongue, bobbing until it gives him a headache, making sure that Dean is mostly mindless and his cock is throbbing, hard as iron in Crowley's mouth.

Then, Crowley disappears.

He reappears some feet away, Dean's outraged cry still hanging in the air. The boy looks murderous, standing there exposed, and he advances on Crowley looking like he intends to wring his neck rather than continue.

Crowley leers at him.

Dean stops. Instead of looking ridiculous with his erection bobbing in the vee of his fly, fitful and red, he looks like some vengeful god of lust. Crowley lets his smirk widen, certain now more than ever of what he's about to demand.

Sighing, Dean rolls his eyes. "Spill."

"Hmm, yes," Crowley purrs. "I want you to fuck me. Right here against the bar. I want you to make me feel it, Dean. Really cut loose. Make me feel like I'm being fucked by a --" _my_ "-- Knight of Hell."

"I ain't --"

"You are, and you will, or so help me I will flay you where you stand," Crowley snarls, letting his eyes flare white.

Dean blinks a little at that. Ah, yes. Crowley was just a paltry crossroads demon the last time he showed his colors. He flips them back to brown and cocks his head to the side, questioning. _What'll it be, Squirrel?_

Then Dean stalks forward, grabs him by the arms and whirls him around, slamming him up against the bar. That warm body covers him from behind. There's a vicious dig of teeth at the back of his neck, and Dean's hiss stings when he says, "You don't get to order me around."

Crowley laughs. "I think I just did."

Impatient fingers fumble at his belt, and yank his slacks and undergarments down to pool around his ankles. Dean's grip on his ass is graceless. Proprietary. He knocks Crowley's legs apart with a boot, shoving in between his thighs, pressing two of his fingers to Crowley's lips with a rough command to suck. Crowley makes sure to get them as wet as he can, knowing with a zing that's equal parts desire and dread that this is all the slick he'll get.

When those fingers tear from his mouth and stab their way inside him, Crowley arches into the pain. It's glorious.

Dean is breathing like he's fighting a war, working Crowley open with quick, sure strokes. Every drag of his fingers burns anew, the dry rim catching at them, and Crowley has never been so glad that he is what he is. This is going to hurt. However, he's getting what he asked for, and he thanks his friends and enemies both alive and eternal that Dean is giving him anything at all.

When those fingers are torn from his body, they tear an unholy noise from him, too.

"Quit your screeching," Dean mutters, lining up his cock. "You fuckin' asked for this."

"Yes," Crowley says, _"yes!"_ when Dean shoves in, short little thrusts that spear him and leave him gasping. Dean circles his hips, working deeper. Crowley can't catch the breath he shouldn't need. When the spurs of Dean's hips are resting firmly against his ass, Crowley has to shake his head to try and clear his vision of spots. That's new.

And of course, Dean doesn't ask. He just starts to move, jerking out and back in, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Every slap and sting keeps Crowley's breath short -- though technically, he doesn't need the air, he likes that Dean keeps him breathless. Strung out. He's high on lack of regularity and the knowledge that Dean, beautiful damaged Dean, is fucking him like he can drive them both right through the wood of the bar. Sweet anathema, how he missed this.

He cants his hips into it, shoving, giving back as well as he can. Dean is panting against the nape of his neck, sweat gathering there. It's getting hot, actually, and as Crowley is jolted again and again he feels a disconnect. He needs to be closer, skin to skin. Shoving with inhuman strength, he staggers Dean back long enough to claw at his jacket and shirt, tearing them both from his body. He hears Dean gasp, his lips twitching into something that's not quite a smile when those hands find his sides again. This time, their touch feels reverent.

Crowley fondly remembers getting his newest tattoo. He'd commissioned one of his artists, a spunky gal just two years off the rack, and she performed admirably. Her reward was befitting her work. He nods every time he passes her frozen form on the wall.

Dean's cock twitches where it's buried, and Crowley shudders. He feels questing fingertips on the inked skin of his back. "Do you like it?" he can't help asking.

Silence. He lets the boy consider the piece. It must come as a shock, he knows, to see one's favorite firearm set with one's own eye and a Latin phrase that does indeed ache constantly, all tangled amidst an ancient, fading mass of scrollwork and mariners' symbols. _Ergo, draco maladicte_ , it reads. _Exorcizamus te_.

_Therefore, curséd demon. We exorcise you._

Crowley hears Dean swallow, the click of his throat. He wonders what must be going through that pretty head of his. He twists around, trying to see, but Dean holds him firm.

He jumps a league when Dean's forehead rests gently on the back of his neck.

"What are you trying to prove?" Dean asks gruffly. His hips are moving subtly, counterpoint to the heartbeat that Crowley can feel at every point where they touch. The clutch of his body is trying to prevent any kind of slide, and the ache of their joining is almost greater than that of the tattoo. "You tryna be the baddest mother on the block? Well, you got me." He laughs, short and cynical. "This is about the stupidest thing I've ever seen."

"So you do like it," Crowley says flatly.

He can feel Dean smile, his lips trembling when he sets gentle teeth to Crowley's nape.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I really do."

He punctuates by dragging every inch of his cock out of Crowley, right to the tip, and punching back in with so little ease that it must hurt him as much as it does Crowley. This is dangerous, what they're doing. It shouldn't be physically possible -- and as much as Crowley appreciates Dean's willingness to dole out this kind of punishment when asked, he does actually prefer the boy unharmed.

That speaks volumes. Crowley packs them all away, and conjures a slickness that takes Dean entirely by surprise. His cry when he thrusts back in the next time is wanton and full of heat. Crowley braces himself and meets Dean's next thrust harder. They form a mutual rhythm, aiming for deeper still each time they meet, the slap and thud of their bodies echoing dully from wall to wall.

Panting breaths become moans, keening wails, until Crowley is howling on Dean's cock. He's being shaken apart. Dean yanks at his hips, working at the angle, and his next thrust hits Crowley's prostate dead on. Crowley shrieks, clawing at the bar top; Dean lets out a wild laugh, fucking into that spot with power and precision. He's _good_ at this, Crowley thinks redundantly, eyes open wide and unseeing. The edge of the bar digs into his chest. He spreads his arms across the surface, dragging his fingertips across the lacquered wood. There's no purchase. He shoves up, but Dean has shifted forward, holding him fast. He's at Dean's mercy. Those hands and that cock have him pinned, right where Dean wants him.

Suddenly Crowley needs to come, more than he's ever needed anything.

He gets one of his hands off the bar, but Dean apparently has the same idea -- or maybe he can just tell by the way Crowley is seizing around him. He catches and begins to strip Crowley's erection ruthlessly. The dual points of incendiary pleasure build, a wave beginning to crest from Crowley's fingertips and the soles of his feet, and his head falls back on Dean's shoulder. His fingernails dig into the edge of the bar. Dean grunts, bites down into tender muscle, and slams in so deep that Crowley feels it in his teeth.

For one, shining instant, he's overcome with joy.

He closes his eyes and comes all over the underside of the bar with a helpless moan. Dean fucks him harder and harder through it, wringing him dry, until Crowley is an oversensitized mess hanging from Dean's cock. Dean growls into his skin, plastering a messy hand to his chest.

"Come on," Crowley whispers, every thrust slamming through his whole body. He's being shaken loose. "Come on, Dean."

At the sound of his name, Dean's whole body locks up, and he lets out a strangled scream, fucking his load in as far as it will go. Marking Crowley from the inside. Crowley hangs there in his grasp, impaled, as Dean shudders it all out, his hips working slower and slower. One last grind and he stills. They shiver together, twin groans of satisfaction.

When Dean pulls out, it feels almost reluctant, but Crowley knows this will never happen again. He's surprisingly at peace with that.

He turns, conjuring a new suit for himself, and catches Dean's fleeting moue. "Neat trick," the boy says. His shirts are mussed and stained, his jeans a spattered pile around his boots. His eyes run down Crowley's body, no doubt thinking of what he saw, and what it means. Crowley just drinks him in. If he memorizes Dean now, then he'll always have this and their times before, no matter what happens next.

He waits while Dean pulls himself together, their silence ringing in his ears. The corpse behind the bar smells even worse now, and Crowley knows it's only a matter of time before Dean can smell it, too. "One-way ticket," he says, a crack in the stillness, and Dean looks up from the last of his buttons. Crowley makes an expansive gesture. "Where do you need to go?"

Dean opens his mouth on an angry protest, but the look in his eyes turns thoughtful before the words can surface. He deflates. One hand finds the back of his neck. Crowley has to fight a sappy expression that threatens to surface at the tell.

"Just get Baby and me home," is all Dean finally says. He turns toward the door. _You and me are done_ , Crowley reads in the set of his shoulders. No ridiculous gesture, or feeling, can undo their storied and bloody past. Ah, well. It's not like he didn't know this was coming. Crowley lets the smile surface, tender and regretful.

Human.

They're gone between one of Dean's heartbeats and the next.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Just a few things:
> 
> * In case anybody doesn't remember, or thinks this idea seems to have appeared out of thin air, Demon!Dean and Crowley had an orgy. Canonically. *glee* So, this is a continuance of that relationship. (I also ascribe to the headcanon that the twins they played foosball with -- and the third brother shown in the background -- are the triplets Crowley mentioned.)
> 
> * The title refers to the (unfinished) ritual that Sam performed on Crowley in Season 9.
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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